


Cold Comfort

by shadeshifter



Series: Cold Comfort [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:12:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeshifter/pseuds/shadeshifter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The activity of the day had reopened Sherlock's wounds, John notices. Post-TEH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on a prompt from the kinkmeme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129403910.  
> When Sherlock comes back from the dead John's really pissed at him. Then he accidentally sees the wounds / scars on his back and starts realizing what he must've gone through.

After the press conference, John watched Sherlock shrug out of his jacket and casually throw it over the back of a chair. He still felt an undercurrent of annoyance and betrayal at the ease with which Sherlock slipped back into his old life as though nothing had changed, as though, despite being insanely happy Sherlock was alive, John hadn’t also been absolutely devastated by his death. Sherlock turned and John’s breath caught at the sight of blood spotting the back of the crisp, white shirt.

“Sherlock, you’re hurt,” John said, stepping forward and reaching out to touch him before stopping short. “Did I do this?” he asked, horrified. He’d been angry and he’d wanted to hurt Sherlock, certainly, but not like this, not seriously. Sherlock scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Sherlock.”

“You didn’t hurt me, John,” Sherlock said, coming uncharacteristically close to sounding reassuring. 

“There should still be a med kit around here, somewhere,” John said, drawing on his detached professionalism. Sentimentality would just push Sherlock away again at this point.

“I have already been attended to,” Sherlock told him, not moving from his spot by the fireplace, arms folded across his chest.

“Not well enough,” John said. There hadn’t been much blood and Sherlock was probably telling the truth, but John had just got him back. The urge to make sure was undeniable.

“Sherlock,” John said, low and beseeching. “Please.”

For a long moment, Sherlock simply stared at him, evaluating and judging him, though John wasn’t sure what for. It had been common for him to treat Sherlock before, especially when it meant Sherlock could avoid a hospital visit. Finally, Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh and relented.

“Very well, John,” he said with the air of someone indulging an insignificant whim as he turned and began to unbutton his shirt. “If you insist.”

John couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped him at the sight of the purple-green mottled expanse of skin that was revealed to him. The bruising was extensive, but not life-threatening, and some of it was fading already. That wasn’t his immediate concern.

Though some of the wounds had bled through, John could see that they had been dressed carefully and thoroughly, which made him feel a little better. What concerned him where the scars, some thick and red, still in the process of healing, other thin and pale, old and mended. Before he even realised what he was doing, his fingers traced along a scar that followed the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder blade. Sherlock immediately tensed at his touch and John’s lips pursed in a thin line, though he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he focussed on carefully removing the plaster and getting an idea of what had happened. He’d been an army doctor; there’d been no end to the kinds of wounds he’d dealt with, the depths of depravity people could visit on each other. He could only come to one conclusion. Sherlock had been beaten and tortured.

“Where have you been the last two years?” John asked softly as he began to apply antiseptic ointment. It had to sting, John was sure, and Sherlock – the Sherlock of two years ago – would have complained, loudly and non-stop, but this Sherlock endured stoically.

“Busy,” Sherlock said, voice as tight and tense as his posture.

“Sherlock,” John said, though he didn’t know what he was asking or what response he expected.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said in that same soft and reassuring tone. The one that told John that Sherlock definitely wasn’t alright at all. From the way the most recent marks had scabbed over but hadn’t yet begun healing, John would guess they weren’t even a few days old.

“I’m sorry,” he said, thinking of how he’d tackled Sherlock to the ground, not once but twice. He might not have caused the wounds, but he’d certainly aggravated them.

“Whatever for, John?” Sherlock asked, twisting to examine John’s expression for a sign of what exactly he meant. His tone was genuinely confused and John wished he knew the words to explain to Sherlock everything he was sorry for, not least his reaction to Sherlock’s return. He’d been angry, and he felt he had a right to that, but Sherlock hadn’t deserved the violence.

“Never mind,” John said. He carefully and lightly smoothed new plaster over the wounds and watched as Sherlock shrugged back into his shirt. “Why don’t I make some tea and you tell me the thirteen possible scenarios,” he offered instead.

Sherlock eyed John sceptically for a moment before he smiled, smug and self-assured.


End file.
